San Miguel de Allende is my favorite destination in Mexico. Like the other colonial cities, its development came during the period of Spanish rule of the country. Several of its surrounding cities, easily reached by car for one-day excursions, benefited from the local discovery of large veins of silver. These silver cities grew larger and more prosperous than San Miguel, but none has charm of the city originally named San Miguel el Grande. It was to honor one of its local heroes of Mexico’s war for independence from Spain, General Ignacio Allende, that city’s the name was changed in 1826.

 

Just opposite the central jardin stands La Parroquia, San Miguel’s main church, which looks like no other church in Mexico, or anywhere else, for that matter. Originally built along Gothic lines, it was repaired and reworked in the late 19th century by a local builder with no architectural training. The result may suggest elements of La Sagrada Familia, in Barcelona, but if so, it’s pure chance. I wouldn’t ordinarily use Gothic and whimsy in the same description of anything, but Gothic whimsy is what La Parroquia projects.

 

At Christmas, in the plaza in front of La Parroquia, there’s a wildly colorful celebration with music and hundreds of locals dancing in the native costumes of their Indian heritage. If you go, be prepared to take lots of pictures. If you have photos of the Christmas celebrations in San Miguel de Allende and are willing to share them with us, we’ll post them on this blog site.

 

Paula Gifford

The approach of the holiday season makes me—and millions more—think about a winter getaway. By that time, I’m usually in the mood for some warm weather. But I gave up long ago on the Costa del Sol and other European sun spots, largely because of the crowds and attendant tumult. My preferred spots now are the colonial cities of the central Mexican state of Guanajuato, including San Miguel de Allende and Guanajuato City.

 

You won’t find hot weather. Rather it will be sunny, cool and dry—a light jacket or sweater should be sufficient. Everything you might want to see or do is accessible, and there are no crowds. It’s a time for sleeping late, breakfasting in your room or terrace and spending the day wandering the streets, looking at the local wares and stopping in at a beautiful church or two to see the splendors that centuries of devotion have created.

 

Have you been to Guanajuato? If so, tell us about your experience. Do you have a “special” place in the area that you’d be willing to share with us? By all means, do.

 

 

Paula Gifford

 

 

Whisk or blend together all the ingredients until smooth. Allow the batter to rest in the refrigerator for at least two hours (overnight will not hurt it). Melt enough butter (a true Breton will use nothing else) in a crêpe pan or skillet over medium heat. Add a scant ¼  cup of batter to the pan and swirl until the bottom of the pan is covered. Cook until the edges show brown and bubbles appear in the center. Slide a wide spatula under the crêpe  and flip it over in the pan. Cook for no more than a minute, then transfer to a plate. Keep the crêpes warm until all are made, then spread the centers with your favorite filling, fold and serve.

This recipe always pleases my guests. If you have a different one, or some tips for assuring a delicious finished crêpe, send them along.

Paula Gifford

One of the best-known products of Brittany is Quimper ware, a tin-based enameled pottery produced in the town of Quimper since the late 17th century. Records indicate this was a pottery-making site as far back as Roman times.

 

Today, Quimper ware is a tin-based enameled pottery that is made and painted by hand. Therefore, no two pieces are exactly alike and this explains, in part, its fascination for collectors.

Each piece is handpainted by a single artist, who initials the piece. Although there are imitators, the company that first made what we think of today as Quimper ware is H. B. Henriot, said to be the oldest company in France. It originated this style of pottery in the late 1600s. The most traditional patterns are images of local peasants at work at various tasks. You don’t have to go to France to find Quimper ware for sale, although the Henriot factory carries a large inventory for sale in their gift shop. There are always a great many pieces for sale on eBay and from other retailers.

 

Paula Gifford

If you were asked to name the least French province of France, what would you say? Would you have thought of Brittany? Brittany is the peninsula located in the extreme northwest of the country. To the north is the English Channel, to the south, the Bay of Biscay.

 

The Bretons are not of the same genealogical lineage as the French. They are, in fact, Celtic and have much in common with the Welsh and Scots and the people of Cornwall.. Throughout the province you will see road signs posted in both French and Armoric, the native Breton language.  

 

Paul Gauguin, Henri Matisse, Claude Monet, Pablo Picasso and countless other artists fell in love with Brittany. They painted its light, its rugged coastlines, its fishing ports, its ancient granite chapels and astounding sculptured Calvaries and the unique cultural expressions of its people, including the women capped in high white coiffes and the men in their hand-carved sabots. Unfortunately, today, you’re only likely to see these native costumes at fairs and festivals.

 

Have you been to Brittany? Were you aware of its historical and cultural and historical distinctiveness? Tell us about your experiences there.

 

Paula Gifford

I wrote about the Silk Road earlier this week, and it occurred to me that whether you’ve traveled the Silk Road or not, you may enjoy reading about it. It’s a subject that has fascinated many archaeologists, historians, travel writers and others.

 

My favorite is Shadow of the Silk Road by Colin Thubron; but you may also enjoy one of these:

 

Life Along the Silk Road by Susan Whitfield

The Silk Road: Xi’an to Kashgar by Judy Bonavia and Christoph Baumer

Silk Road: Monks, Warriors & Merchants by Luce Boulnois and Helen Loveday

Stories from the Silk Road by Cherry Gilchrist and Nilesh Mistry.

 

If you can recommend others, please do.

 

By the way, the Silk Road was so named by the German army engineer, Baron Frederick von Richthofen, in the late 19th century. A distant relative of his was Manfred von Richthofen, the “Red Baron,” Germany’s World War I flying ace.

 

Paula Gifford

A great many travelers to China include the city Xi’an on their itinerary. Second only to the Great Wall in numbers of visitors it receives, Xi’an is the location of an army of some 8,000 life-size, terra-cotta soldiers in battle formation, marching to the beat of the third-century B.C. megalomaniac, Emperor Qin Shihuang. But what many—perhaps most—visitors don’t realize is that Xi’an is also one of the eastern starting points of the Silk Road. As far back in history as the first century, silk and other precious commodities had been transported by caravan between China and the Middle East and India along several alternative routes around and through mountains and deserts. If you haven’t been to China yet, when you do go, consider taking one of the several tours offered by both Chinese and western operators that step off from Xi’an and follow the route of the Silk Road. It’s a lifetime experience. And if you’ve seen the “terra cotta army” in Xi’an, I’d enjoy hearing your reactions on first glimpsing these silent warriors. Personally, I found them to be both awe inspiring and spooky.

 

Paula Gifford

I’ve stayed in a goodly number of luxury—and even uber luxury—hotel properties around the world, and with only an occasional trivial objection, I’ve enjoyed them all. But I’ve also learned to keep an open mind about where I lay my head for the night. Particularly, if one is open to what might be considered “unconventional” experiences, there are opportunities to stay in places where the tourist never ventures.

 

For example, in Bhutan I’ve had the opportunity to stay at the Shingkhar Dechenling Monastery, situated at about 11,000 feet in the central eastern part of the country. The only way to reach it is by rough road from what was then the country's only airport at Paro.

 

The monastery itself is a simple one, without electricity, but its views are fabulous and its temple beautifully decorated with representations of the story of Buddhism. The two guest rooms are heated with wood-burning stoves, but the hot water bottle placed at the bottom of each bed at night is especially welcome. There are Western toilets and running water. In the meadow below, monks prepare crude but luscious hot rock baths with spring water. Meals are excellent, as they also are in the small village restaurants that provide the dining en route. Vegetables, cheese and chilies, red rice and curry, chicken stews and pork dumplings, much of it quite excellent, are commonly served.  

 

 

 

Paula “Anyplace I Hang My Hat Is Home” Gifford

The last big holiday of the summer season has passed—successfully, I hope. In my family, Labor Day is the time for gathering what’s left of the clan for a last outdoor meal, a game of touch football and maybe some badminton. The littlest one are delighted when it’s hot enough to have duels with the water hoses.

 

Many of us will be together again at Thanksgiving, but there’s always an element of sadness associated with Labor Day. Maybe it emanates from the children, who face the start of a new school year . 

 

In my family, holidays are no longer the momentous occasions they were in my parents’ day. I think my grandfather spent his year planning for the next holiday, when his brothers and their families would all come together for the festivities—always at my grandparents’ house. In those days, all four of the brothers lived within thirty minutes of each other.

 

But with changes in American society brought about by greater mobility as well as economic opportunity in cities that had seemed no more than names in distant places, my family, like most, dispersed. Today, they live all over the map, including overseas. The only times we are all together are at weddings, marking the start of a new branch on the family tree, or at funerals, when we close the book on another.

 

At times I get nostalgic for what I remember of those grand gatherings, especially Thanksgiving, when my cousins and I were allowed to sit on cushions that raised us high enough to be at the “big” table. I don’t recall many details, but my mother’s stories of those celebrations are wonderful. I’m especially intrigued by one about a New Year’s party that must have taken place in the mid1940s. Three of the guests were neighbors who were good friends of my grandparents. One was a single gentleman who went to work each day, but no one knew what he did. Later, everyone learned he had been a physicist working at the University of Chicago on the Manhattan Project that developed the atomic bomb. The other two were a couple who had a son in the Air Force. Again, some time later it became known that their son had been part of the crew that flew the Enola Gay, the plane that dropped the bomb on Hiroshima.

 

I’ve always thought it ironic that at these happy celebrations, my family unknowingly had their brush with history. Would that it had been a less ominous brush.

 

 

Paula “Another drink? Sure” Gifford